Of Cigarettes and Muddiness
by grey chemistry
Summary: He can never have enough of her tempting muddiness. Or cigarettes. [Setting- 5th year; ONESHOT]


**OF CIGARETTES AND MUDDINESS**

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><p>The night couldn't have arrived slower. One of the prefects in charge of patrols gladly shut up his books and headed outside <em>to<em> _do his rounds._ Well, that was what the others thought.

Smoky white puffs slowly floated from his mouth as he took in a relaxing breath, one after the other and gradually leaned back on the rough stony wall in the cold winter night. This white smoke was utterly fascinating and comforting. The swirling patterns were a world in which he liked to get lost in every night, whether on rounds or not. They helped him forget his miseries.

Unsurprisingly, his dorm mates had been complaining about a foul and extremely nauseous smell for some time now. He had acted along with them too, pretending to be affected, saying that the blasted smell must have been originating from the slimy lake. Oh, how wrong the poor souls had been when they trusted his false judgement. If only they knew how fabulous a whiff of that tantalising whiteness was...

Yes, Draco Malfoy, son of pureblood maniac, Lucius Malfoy and servant of the Dark Lord had a huge addiction to a dirty muggle contraption named cigarettes.

He had discovered them few months ago, having been offered one from Graham Montague after a particularly bad Slytherin-Gryffindor Quidditch match. He had been so close to catching that Snitch when in came racing Potter, in all his glory and snatched his win from him. He had been extremely furious. They had been clearly winning. He had even written a very degrading poem about Weasley and named it, 'Weasley is our king'. But no. Those damned Gryffindors had won.

And it had all been his fault.

With great reluctance on his part, he had quite painfully admitted that he had been too distracted during the match. The distraction hadn't been due to his housemates screaming his poem or the rival crowd being equally ferocious in their efforts. No, the crowd had no part to play in his downfall. It had rather been someone in the red tinged black that he had been keeping an eye on.

He watched as the milkiness floated ethereally around him and then vanished in the darkness of the night. The ghostly swirls were reminding him of a certain witch's unruly curls, causing him to walk down the memory lane. He remembered seeing her, sitting in the vast crowd, an unreadable expression on her face. Her eyes managed to find that blithering red haired idiot every now and then. After some time he had realised that she was worried for the Weasel.

So lost he had been in gazing in her direction from up above, trying to make out her delicate features that he had not heard the gentle humming of the Snitch's rapidly flapping wings as it had zapped past away from him in the turbulent air.

It was only when the crimson black part of the crowd created a great uproar that he realised that the boy who lived had spotted the golden treasure. He saw it too, albeit too late. Potter had gone ahead of him and closed his fingers on the teeny ball. He had attempted to tussle it out of his unwavering grip but had been very unsuccessful.

No, it was not his fault. It was that enchantress' fault.

Damn her and her tempting muddiness.

After the match he had let off some steam by provoking those self-righteous Gryffindors. Even though Scarhead had punched him in the stomach for it but afterwards he was quite pleased to see Potter and the other Weasel being ordered to report to McGonagall. She had watched him cruel disdain yet again. Always did.

That night, his teammates had been extra quiet and not attempted to make any conversation to him. Not that he wanted to talk. Eventually Montague had approached him as he sat on his regular spot in the empty common room and asked, very calmly, "Who is it?", breaking his train of thought about a certain Mudblood.

"What are you talking about?", he had replied warily.

"I understand when a seeker is lost in far away places, mid-air. So, who is it?", Montague had asked again.

"No one."

"Well, whoever she is, she must be good to keep _you_ distracted."

He had remained silent.

"Here take this. It'll calm you.", the oddly calm captain had said after a while as he had handed him his addiction for the first time.

He remembered watching the paper covered cylindrical stick curiously as he had rubbed his calloused fingers upon it.

"I don't like Muggles but I love this little dear thing of theirs. It's a cigarette."

"And what does this do?", he had asked, not in the least concerned that he was touching something Muggle-made.

"Watch"

He had stared, curiously as the boy beside him had lighted the stick and started to puff the white smoke emitting from its burning end. After a while, he had grown nauseous.

"How can you even stand that stuff?", he had drawled, uncomfortable.

"You will adapt to it with time." And then the cigarette from his hand, had been thrusted into his mouth. Gradually he had come to enjoy it. Now, he was here, inhaling his sorrows and puffing them out, again and again. It was an endless and inescapable cycle. All this while, only one thing remained on his mind, Granger, the cause of every catastrophe in his life.

That beautiful Mudblood had been the cause of his miseries for some five years now. It had all begun back when they were mere children, twelve years or so. His father had demanded how come a Mudblood had surpassed _him_ in all the subjects. He had been unable to answer. Each year the scenario had repeated itself. He had hated her. Though, it could be counted upon as borderline respect too.

In their third year, she had punched him in the nose and oh, what a powerful punch it was. His secret respect had grown even more, if that was possible. That is why he had scrambled off without any disgusting retort. He had regrettably realised that no one, not even him, her so called archenemy, could hate her.

Granger, was a force in herself, he reckoned.

The grey clouds crowded around him and twisted in extremely curly patterns forcing him into yet another glorious memory- The Yule Ball.

The swirling whiteness around him slowly morphed into a graceful girl, wearing periwinkle blue robes. The robes were floating lightly around her and giving her the appearance of a goddess. He saw her gliding on the dance floor, enchanting everyone. He saw himself, trying to tug away Parkinson from his sleeve. It was that night that his views regarding her blood status had changed. It seemed as if her muddy blood was making her glow. It was making her even more beautiful. That night he realised that he not only respected and hated her but was also begin to have tiny infatuation with her. Now it had become even bigger. It consumed him; in and out, ceaselessly.

He wanted her, very badly at that.

A light breeze stirred him out of his dreams. The night air was becoming colder by the minute when he heard someone's quick footsteps approaching his direction. Fast as lightening, he pressed the remaining half of the cigarette to the ground with his foot. He turned around and there stood the Mudblood of his thoughts before him.

"Malfoy my rounds are over so I am going back...", she said to him but he wasn't listening as he walked towards her. Something had to be done before he lost it. It had to be now, before he fell even further in her eyes. So, he stopped at a short distance from her and stood there before grabbing her by the shoulders. Her eyes were wide with shock but there was no turning back now because he had resisted her seductively muddiness for an eternity.

He looked into her chocolate orbs for one last time before he pulled her flush against him and pressed his lips to hers in a searing kiss. She resisted for a long time, going as far as to try to push him away but he was adamant in his efforts. He could not give up now that he had come so far. Eventually she loosened up a bit and lost herself in him as she tugged him closer and fisted her hand in his whitish and smooth hair. He deepened the kiss by slipping his tongue inside her mouth, focussing on the curve of her lips and the small of her back; little things to remember her by.

They stood there for some time as time stopped ticking for them and by the time it started running again, they were wallowing in each other's depths. Gradually he pulled back with sheer regret as they both opened their eyes. "WHAT THE HELL WAS THAT?", she all but whispered in the stillness of the quite night.

He didn't say anything. Not that he had anything vaguely understandable to say to her. She would not understand, never could.

"Goodnight Granger.", he smirked half-heartedly and started to walk away.

She didn't come after him.

As he walked away, losing himself in the still darkness of the blackness around him, he bittersweetly came to the conclusion that he could never have enough of her enchanting muddiness.

He lighted another one.

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><p><strong>Reviews are love...<strong>


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